


Happy Holidays

by MaskedCyborg



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Panic Attacks, Schizophrenia, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 06:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13475481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskedCyborg/pseuds/MaskedCyborg
Summary: December 25th; Christmas isn't cold or bitter like it's supposed to be, but I am here and I am both.Is it bad to want?





	Happy Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> I've been debating putting this up for a long time.

Its that time of the night again.   
  
Im laying here, thinking about all these good things in my life, and everything was fine until it wasn't, because my thoughts drift to Who I Want To Be.   
  
The thought itself is a spiral - I'm not sure if it is for anyone else. I'm thinking about how I want studs and to grow my hair out, but also tear it all out because it looks too feminine and all I hope to be is at least a little more masculine. I'm thinking that I should bind but I'm too afraid to do anything, because ace bandages are dangerous, but so is my depression. And suddenly I'm curled in a ball and tugging at my hair and I'm hiccuping on my own sobs, I don't even know why I'm crying- and I'm _alone_ -  
  
_"Shh. Its okay."_ Theres arms wrapped around me and someones cradling my head in their chest. I know if I reach out to grasp at them I'll only feel air, so I tangle my fingers further into my scalp. Ghost hands tug them out and hold them, and I squeeze my eyes shut at the sight of ghostly pale skin. I'm still hiccuping and crying and alone, and I'm aware I'm imagining a person holding me because I know there won't be anyone to, because nobody ever comes.   
  
_"Don't copy and paste,"_ she whispers, and I cringe at the reference. It doesn't make sense; not if I listen to it without knowing what it means. I drift back. Dye my hair black. Learn how to draw. Spiral, spiral, spiral into all that I force myself to stay away from. I cry harder.   
  
_"Remember that time in Vegas?"_ She's referencing again, and I try to push her away because I realise this trap that I always fall into that seems like sugar but is always venom is dangerous, she is dangerous. But her grip is deadly tight, and I'm stuck wiggling helplessly in an effort to escape. I do remember. I remember every second I look at my arms which are clear but the skin is tough. I remember every time I mention therapy and my mother just works harder, and I am alone. I remember trying to bring it up. I remember it being forced down my throat again.   
  
"Yes, yes, please let me go," I whisper pathetically, because I need to get as far away as possible, because my sanity is cracking and I can feel it shattering beneath me. Her nails are pinching the skin on my back forcefully and I am so, so scared.   
  
_"Then don't fall. I am a good influence."_ She gazes down at me. I stare up, terrified. _"I'm a good influence. This is for the best."_ She is anything but good.   
  
And then she's gone, and I'm gasping for air and remembering why I don't want to follow the horrible, horrible trail my dead relatives graciously paved for me. I curl into myself further, and whimper tears into my legs until I'm drifting asleep.


End file.
